


With That We Lack

by Anonymous



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, M/M, Manipulation, Pegging, Strap-Ons, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eager to tighten her emotional hold over him, Sofia comes to Oswald costumed as a different figure of love lost from his past.





	With That We Lack

“Tell me about Edward Nygma, the man on ice.”

It’s a line Sofia tries on Jim and Oswald both, with plans to pore through both responses for something - anything - she can weaponize.

Jim she asks first. His response itself is useless, nothing she doesn’t already know: “They were friends, then they weren’t. Fallouts in Gotham city tend to end in bloodshed and ice, you’ll soon learn.”

There’s something in his eyes and the way his back goes stiff, though, that makes Sofia sure there’s more there, something he either suspects but isn’t certain of, or knows but doesn’t want to share.

Revealing, either way.

Oswald, after several glasses of wine and some carefully-worded flattery, is much more forthcoming: “I loved him. He didn’t love me back. A point he conveyed many times, but never more persuasively than when he killed me. Or thought he did.”

Oswald had spoken with a practiced detachment Sofia knows well, but one betrayed by the wetness in his eyes. Sofia had nodded, and when she pressed for more was assured only that the man had lost his brains and his title and was nothing to anybody anymore.

Nothing though he may now be, Sofia had tracked Edward Nygma down to a seedy fight club deep in the Narrows. She watched him from afar, a slender green-clad reed in a sea of muscled violence. There was something in his grin, though, and in the sharpness of his manner as he led men into the ring that made him more terrifying than any of the animals brutalizing one another onstage.

Was it this fearsome power he possessed even here, brainless and titleless, that Oswald desired, or was it a piece of him Sofia could never hope to glimpse from this distance?

She couldn’t be sure, and the risk of approaching him any closer was too great. She would just have to make do with what she had.

Sofia has a green suit custom-made, the fabric a perfect match for Nygma’s, glittering near-gold in the light.

Next, she spends upwards of an hour trying on glasses until she finds the consummate equal, large on her face and transformative.

The penultimate piece of her costume she has the most fun picking out: a strap-on with a black harness and a modestly sized, flesh-colored dildo attached. She relishes the weight and hang of it, remembering with a twist of her mouth something a hazel-eyed girlfriend had once told her, freshly fucked-out in bed: “Freud may have been a hack, but he’d have had a field day with you. Penis envy, that’s what you’ve got.” (Sofia had rolled her eyes then as she rolls her eyes now, but she leaves the strap-on on for longer than necessary, alone in her bedroom, nonetheless.)

Finally, she plucks Nygma’s old hat out of Oswald’s office, beneath his desk where he’d probably be horrified to know Sofia knows he keeps it hidden. It’s soft and study and heavier than it looks. When she puts it on, it feels the way she’d always imagined a crown would feel. She smiles.

Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Sofia admires the outfit in completion: the suit, bright and hanging in straight lines that conceal her curves; the glasses, catching the light in a way that obscures her eyes; her hair, pinned up beneath that hat Oswald keeps around like a hidden trophy.

And then, of course, the prosthetic cock between her legs, tucked away beneath the fabric of her pants but changing something in the gait of her stance and step.

She practices her grin in the mirror, as wide as she can bear it. The reflected sight disarms even her.

She’s ready. She steps outside and walks to her destination, hyper-aware of the swing of her strap-on with every step. 

Sofia's skin is hot all over as she bursts into The Iceberg Lounge to find Oswald sitting alone, a glass of wine in his hand that he promptly drops when he catches an eyeful of her.

“...Sofia?” Oswald asks, eyes and mouth wide. “Why are you - what are you -”

“Quiet,” Sofia snaps. Her voice can’t go quite as low or as growly as she’s heard Nygma’s go in clips of his public outings, but she captures the essence of it nonetheless. She can see it in the way Oswald’s spine stiffens and his face colors with an aroused rage.

Sofia loves the sight before her: Oswald, her enemy, her friend, arms encircling himself in something between defensiveness and embarrassment, his face the color of the wine pooled at his feet.

Much as Sofia longs to take him, just like this, mean and hard in the role of The Riddler as she’s seen him on film and in the flesh, she’s learned enough about Oswald Cobblepot to know the only chance of getting into his pants is through kindness.

It’s The Riddler he respects, and The Riddler he pretends to miss, but it’s Edward Nygma he wants.

Sofia can’t know for sure what ‘Edward Nygma’ entails for him exactly, but she guesses it can’t be too far off from the quirks that have helped Sofia herself worm her way into Oswald’s insides: with praise and love and touches gentle.

She steps forward. Oswald’s shoulders instinctively tense. She brings her hand to his face, just beneath his jaw. She tilts his head up, exceedingly soft.

Tears cling to Oswald’s lashes. Sofia has never met anyone so sensitive to touch.

“Sofia,” Oswald whispers.

“Call me Ed,” she commands.

Oswald’s breaths come quicker, shakier.

Sofia strokes at the tender skin beneath his jaw.

“ _Ed_ ,” he breathes then, with all the relief of a confession, eyes fluttering closed as the droplets on his lashes spill over.

He nuzzles into Sofia’s touch. Sofia brings it down to his chest, then removes his clothing, layer after layer, until he’s in nothing but his briefs, purple and tented at the crotch.

He’s moaning softly, goosebumps prickled up his chest and his rosy nipples hard. Sofia runs her hands over the exposed skin there, then down, lingering at the bullet scar at his abdomen she knows Nygma (or, rather, The Riddler) left there.

Oswald trembles violently as she circles it with a fingertip.

Sofia leans in, brings her unpainted lips to his ear.

“I’m so sorry that I did this to you, Oswald,” she purrs. “But _oh_ , it looks so pretty.”

Oswald gasps. Face still pressed to his ear where Oswald cannot see it, Sofia grins.

“Ed, please,” he cries, hands reaching up to Sofia’s waist. He rubs the texture of the suit between his fingers (Sofia wonders how frequently he’s fantasized about doing just that).

Sofia moves to his other ear, licking hot up the shell.

“Do you want my cock?” she whispers, slow and sure.

“Your - ?”

Sofia wraps her fingers around his right wrist and brings it to her crotch, allowing him to feel the bulk of the dildo there nestled.

“Oh,” he gasps, a pleased, embarrassed sound.

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh,” Oswald repeats, gasping again. “Yes. Yes, Ed, yes.”

Sofia lifts him to his feet with a hand, then guides him gently onto the floor, flat on his back, mindful all the while of his leg and the broken glass littered across it.

Dropping gracefully onto her knees, she pulls his underwear off, discarding it into the puddle of spilt wine with a subtle malice he does not catch.

She settles between his spread legs and coats her fingers in the lube she’d left prepared in her pocket.

With three fingers, she rubs and circles and finally fucks him open, closing her eyes to relish the wet, squelching sounds of her fingers pumping in and out and the pathetic cries tearing their way out of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, _oh_ , Ed, oh, oh, thank you, _Ed_ , oh…”

The hand not working at Oswald’s ass she uses to unzip and hike down her pants. When her cock is freed, she pulls out of Oswald to wrap slick digits around it, lubing it up and readying it for insertion.

She eyes Oswald’s clenching hole and lifts her cock up to it, angling her body and lining up her hips for most effective access.

“Hold your legs up to your chest for me, will you, Oswald?”

Oswald complies, an unbroken, keening cry accompanying the movement.

“There you go, that’s good,” she coos, as the tip of her cock glides in and Oswald sobs. “That’s good, you’re so good, taking this. So good.”

The words are important as the penetration, she knows, sinking in deeper, terms of praising encouragement bubbling from her lips as Oswald’s cries get so loud she worries someone working security detail for him outdoors might burst in to save him.

No one comes, and the look of rapture on his face when she’s pushed in to the hilt is like nothing she has ever seen, on man or woman. It makes her hips still, until he pushes back against her, an unspoken plea, and she’s thrusting, slowly, then faster when he cries for ‘more, Ed, more.’

She fucks into him with all the force her position will allow, pumping frantically until beads of sweat drip down her nose and onto his chest.

He’s getting close now, and she’s getting tired, so she brings her hands to his face and breathes the words she knows will fill him like no cock, real or otherwise, ever could:

“I love you, Oswald.”

He comes, messy and chaotic, legs kicking as he screams himself hoarse.

She pulls out and lifts herself back onto her knees, pulling Oswald up with her, holding him tight as he shakes.

“I love you, Ed, I love you so much, please stay, please, please just stay -”

Sobbing, he buries his face into her chest.

“I’ve got you, Oswald. You’re mine.”

Oswald clings to her tighter, and she’s sure the grin that splits her own in two is truer and more terrifying than any The Riddler or Ed Nygma alike have ever managed.


End file.
